The Experiment
by illegalpen
Summary: Uni!lock fic set in modern day for ease. Sherlock/OC. Annella has left life in her small village to take on the big city at university. Moving in she discovers one of her flat mates is odd. And a genius. She wants to help him, she wants him to experiment with one of the basic human instincts, but who knew what that could have led to? Strong language and sexual themes.
1. Chapter 1

_This is not a conventional love story._

_It's not really a story..._

_...to be honest it's not really about love. _

_Let me start again. _

_My name is Elizabeth. Call me Lizzy. Or Ellie. Or whatever. Just not Beth. _

_This story is real. This story is about me. And a boy. Isn't it always? _

_Except my boy...isn't a normal boy. He's not really my type. I don't think he's anyone's type. He's -_

_He's -_

"For fuck sake," I groan, pressing the backspace bar violently. I put my head in my hands.

First day. The first fucking day. And they want me to write an introduction to a story. Like what the hell?

I didn't expect there to be much writing on my course. I thought it would just be reading. I've never written anything before and I think, judging by my awful introduction, I shouldn't write anything ever again. I close my eyes and think of home.

I think of my carpeted staircase in the hallway. I'm sitting on them. I'm waiting, nervous, tapping my fingers against the railings. I stare at the front door for what seems like hours. The doorbell rings and I shoot up, striding to the door and opening it. It's the postman.

"Good morning hen," says Pete, our Glaswegian postie. He moved here ten years ago with his family for a "quieter" life. You could say that alright. The only interesting people here are the tourists, and that's because they have lives outside of the village. Pete hands me a letter with a wink and I sign on the electronic reader.

"Good luck," he says. I thank him and close the door. I run to the living room and shout, "it's here, it's here!" My mother comes rushing downstairs in her dressing gown, my father following more slowly and sleepily behind.

"What does it say, Annella?" mum chitters excitedly.

"I haven't opened it yet!" I say impatiently. Mum pulls a pouty toddler look and I roll my eyes.

Hands shaking I open the letter and pull out the contents. The piece of paper is slightly stiff: it's good quality paper. There is a explanatory letter on top but I throw it to the side. Dad picks it up and reads it carefully, even though it has nothing interesting. My eyes are held tightly shut. I can't look. I won't look. The moment I open my eyes my previously hazy future suddenly becomes clear. My mum gently shakes my arm and I open my eyes.

I blink. I blink again. I put the paper closer to my face as my already pale skin turns paler.

"What is it?" Mum asks. "What's wrong?"

"I- it's not what I expected."

My father puts down the other piece of paper and carefully takes the one I'm holding out of my hands. He holds it out at arms length squinting at it. He doesn't have his reading glasses. A slow smile spreads across his face, and the same smile spreads across mine.

"You did it. Fucking hell you did it lass!" My dad cheers and grabs me in a hug, laughing, and I can't help but join in. My mum is getting agitated.

"What did you get?"

"All As."

"Aye right!"

"I'm not kidding, look!" I squeal, shoving the paper under her nose. She looks down quickly at it shaking her head.

"I knew you were a smart one. So does that mean...?"

"Yep," I cut in "I'm going to uni!"

I shake my head. I can't even think of home without thinking about that day. One of the best days of my life. After that things moved so fast they became a blur. My acceptance letter from Edinburgh. Packing. Driving to the city for supplies. More packing. Saying goodbye to my two school friends, goodbye to my family, goodbye to my village, to the loch, to the exhibition centre where I worked, and hello capital city!

Usually students of Edinburgh university stay in the halls - you basically get a room on a floor with loads of other rooms, a shared communal bathroom and a shared kitchen - but I didn't. I got a flat with 5 other flatmates, some of them I have yet to meet.

My flat is nice. My bedroom is big and there are two toilets and two shower rooms. The kitchen smells odd but it's pretty cool - it's got couches and stuff.

But the city! I fell in love when I came here on holiday when I was 11. I knew I'd have to live here later. And here I am.

I shut off my laptop and go to the kitchen. I make a sandwich, wrap it in foil, put on my coat and pick up my keys. And I make my way to Princes Street Gardens.

I'm lazily eating a sandwich when a strange sight befalls me. A boy, late teens like me, wearing a woollen trench coat and a black scarf walks passed the bench I am sat on. He abruptly turns left, off the path and walks towards a tree. There he stops, looks up, and shakes it violently. Leaves fall off and he catches several and goes to put them in his pocket. But he stops, clearly deep in thought. He looks around and makes eye contact with me, I blush slightly but sit up straighter, trying to look confident. He looks at my hands and walks towards me.

He is tall and skinny, with black curly hair. His face is very sharp looking, all edges and cheekbones, in an appealing way. His eyes remind me of my cat's, in their shape and also the stare. They are blue. Or are they green? I can't tell.

"Can I have your foil." It's a question but he doesn't say it questioningly. He has an English accent and a deep voice.

"What?" I ask, bemused.

He points to the foil I used for my sandwiches. "Can I have it?" this time it sounds like a question.

"Uhh...yeah I guess I'm done with it."

"You guess?" he says rudely, almost mockingly, "you're either done with it or not."

"Ok wow, take it," I say, a little shocked and shove it in his outstretched hand. Still standing in front of me, looming over me, he carefully wraps the leaves in the foil and puts it in his pocket. He then looks at me and I feel a little uncomfortable. He looks intently up and down my body deep in thought. He then turns and walks away.

"Well bye then," I say, laughing in a confused manner. He doesn't react at all. I shake my head, still laughing with uncertainty.

What a strange boy.


	2. Chapter 2

I struggled with the lock, leaning my weight on the door and twisting the key side to side. Eventually it clicked and I stumbled into the corridor. I huffed as the door shut behind me. I couldn't open my new front door, how embarrassing. I shoved the key in my coat pocket and made my way to the kitchen, unbuttoning my coat. A nice cup of tea was what I needed. I shoved open the door and saw four people sat at the table already.

Two of them I had met previously. Chloe and Daniel. They smiled slightly at me and I smiled back. Chloe was seventeen, brown haired, and short with a big and loud personality. She was from Glasgow. Daniel was also quite short with a friendly smile. He was slightly chavvy looking, with a grade 2 number haircut, making it difficult to tell his hair colour, but smart. He hadn't said where he was from but I guessed the Fife area.

"Hi," I said to the other two. I tried my best to seem confident, and I seemed to fool them. "I'm Annella, but everyone calls me something different."

"I'm Steven," said the averagely built lad. His accent was English. "I'm from Surrey and I'm studying politics." He wore glasses and had blonde hair. He shook my hand. How very political of him, I thought.

"How old are you?" I asked him. He said that he was nineteen. It seemed old to be a fresher, but I remembered that people in England seemed to go to uni later.

The other flatmate was a girl. She was called Rachel and was from America. She was extremely friendly in that happy American way and full of beans. She was about my height, so quite tall, with long auburn curly hair. We made idle chit chat and I took a seat at the table with them.

Fifteen minutes later the kitchen door opened, and the last flat mate appeared.

My back was to the door so I had to turn around and I nearly spat out my tea everywhere.

"Hi!" I said. "I met you earlier, in the park. That's so weird. Are you the last flat mate?"

The boy from the park surveyed the room, looking at every detail of it, before surveying us. Finally his gaze landed on me. He looked bored.

"Obviously," he said. He then took off his scarf and coat, threw them on a couch, and walked over to the kettle.

The over flat mates looked shocked. Surely he would try and talk to them, bond with them, and not speak so rudely to someone he only just met?

Rachel put on a smile. "What's your name? I'm Rachel. I'm from America, as you can probably tell. California."

He ignored her and us, his back turned away from us.

I butted in, "Oi, she's talking to you, leaf boy!"

He then turned around and stared at me, slightly bemused. He glanced at Rachel quickly but his gaze came back to mine.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Well nice to meet you again Sherlock Holmes."

He nodded in acknowledgement and turned back to the kettle. A pulled a wide eyed face to the others and they grinned. I looked back at Sherlock. He wore a white polo shirt and black trousers, and black converse. An unusual outfit, it seemed like he was still trying to work out his style.

"I'm Annella, thanks for asking. You can call me something shorter though." I paused, "Just not Anne. Or Annie. Don't ask why."

At this he turned around with a smirk. "I don't need to ask, I know why," he said.

I was about to ask how he could possibly know when Daniel interrupted. "We should all go out tonight."

I nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely! Flat night out!"

The others agreed too. Apart from Sherlock.

"What about you, Holmesy?" I asked playfully. Everyone laughed at the term.

Sherlock frowned at me. "No, I don't socialise."

I laughed, thinking he was joking, then stopped when I realised he wasn't. "You serious? You don't drink or...anything?"

He shook his head. "It's a waste of my time."

"So you've never had anything to drink before?" asked Daniel, bewildered.

Sherlock frowned a little, as if he misheard him. He probably did as Daniel's fife accent is strong.

I saved Sherlock the embarrassment (not that it would have embarrassed him) of asking what he said by saying, "Not even a beer, no alcohol at all?"

He then realised what Daniel said and replied, "Don't be stupid, of course I've had alcohol before. It was an experiment and my conclusion was that it is a waste of time."

He stood holding a cup of the tea he made staring at us like we were idiots. In his mind, we probably were.

Steven ignored Sherlock's outburst and changed the subject. "So, Annella, where are you from?"

"A wee town up north called Drumnadrochit," I replied, turning my back on Sherlock. I could feel him staring at me and it made me feel uncomfortable.

"Drum-na what now?" said Rachel.

"Drumnadrochit. It's by Loch Ness. You know...the Loch Ness Monster?"

Rachel squealed in delight, which I expected. Most tourists of Drumnadrochit were american, and nearly all the films about the monster were american. Some americans seemed to have a strange obsession with it. Not that I minded; if they didn't, the exhibition centre where I worked would've shut down by now.

Behind me Sherlock snorted.

"Got something to say, leaf boy?" I asked, irritated. I put my arm on the back of the chair and turned around, looking at him.

"It's a ridiculous myth, that's all. The fact that you can actually believe in it makes me question your sanity. Or maybe just IQ."

I felt red hot rage corse through me. He barely knows me and he's going to be as rude as that?

"Actually I don't believe in it. I live there, remember? No one local believes in Nessie. Also, the fact that you 'don't socialise' makes _me_ question _your_ sanity," I snapped. Sherlock had snorted again when I said 'Nessie'.

"Anyyyyway," said Steven awkwardly, breaking the glare Sherlock and I shared, "what course are you doing?"

I huffed and turned back to Steven. "English lit."

I heard Sherlock get up behind me and leave the room.

I felt slightly guilty. I was trying to act all confident and cool, but did I end up making Sherlock feel uncomfortable and unwelcome? I wasn't the sort of person who snapped at people and called them nicknames. I was the shy girl who would sit in the corner, smiling and silent.

He was a smartarse but he was also a boy. A boy who had moved away from home for the first time and was out of place, friendless, and possibly homesick. While the others chatted I got up quietly and left.

In the corridor I looked at all the closed doors. Which one was his? I was about to turn around and go back in the kitchen when I heard a slight crashing sound come from the bedroom next to mine. Bingo.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: hey guys. It's a little quiet up in here! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. Please feel free to review if you think something's not working. Or if you_ _just wanna say hi!_

_disclaimer that I haven't done yet woops...I don't own Sherlock. Just the plot and characters you don't recognise. _

I knocked timidly on the door. When there was no reply I knocked a little louder. Still nothing. I opened the door and walked in.

Boxes. Lots of boxes. Everywhere. Sherlock stood in the middle holding a microscope and trying to figure out where to put it. He didn't seem to notice my present. I coughed. I coughed louder. I stood in silence for five seconds and was just about to leave when he spoke.

"I may need to use other people's rooms for storage."

"You what?" I said. He turned around and looked at me.

"I have no room."

I laughed, "None of us do mate, you'll just have to find space." I shut the door quietly behind me and walked into the room, looking around. There were no photographs on the walls or in frames on the surfaces. The only thing that made it seem like a bedroom was a poster. But it was of the periodic table.

I pointed at it. "Studying chemistry?"

"Chemical physics," he replied, settling to putting the microscope on the desk. I looked to his bed and saw the sheets and covers lying on top in a mess.

"Not very good at making a bed, huh?" I teased.

He shrugged. "I don't know how to."

I gasped. "You don't know how to make a bed?"

He shrugged again. "I think my mother taught me at one point, but I deleted it."

"Deleted it?" I asked. He didn't reply as he was hanging clothes in the wardrobe. I sighed and went over to his bed. I pushed everything on to the floor and picked up the sheet. I neatly made his bed, fluffing up his pillows and straightening his quilt. There was no pattern on the cover, it was just plum coloured. As I did this Sherlock finished putting his clothes away. He turned to me and saw the bed made. However he didn't react at all - it was if he expected that.

"Used to people making your bed for you, huh?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Well I'm not gonna make a habit out of it, I'm warning you."

I stood there, waiting expectantly. He stared at me a little puzzled until he realised. "Oh, thank you."

I smiled mockingly. "You're welcome."

I hesitated before saying, "Listen, I'm sorry if I was rude earlier, I'm just in a new place and trying to be confident about it all," I paused, and sank down onto his bed, "to be perfectly honestly, I'm absolutely terrified about this all. I don't know what I'm doing and I miss home and my friends."

"You're friend being Nessie the friendly lake monster?"

I burst out laughing, much to his puzzlement and leaned back against the wall. I realised I hadn't laughed properly since I left home.

"So, you definitely not coming out with us?" I asked. Sherlock sat down at the desk chair opposite me.

"I don't do socialising."

"What do you call this then?" I teased.

He hesitated, but smiled a little.

"Is this completely unbearable for you, Sherlock Holmes?"

"No I suppose not. Annella Reid."

I frowned. "How do you know my surname?"

"I researched everyone before I came here. The computer system the accommodation company use is so easy to hack."

"Ah, a computer whizz are we? And for the record...that's a little creepy."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is it? Hm."

We sat in comfortable silence and I realised how easy it was to talk to him without other people there. He didn't seem like he meant to be an ass, maybe he just had a social behaviour problem.

"So Sherlock Holmes, is it a chemist you want to be when you're older?"

He frowned. "Why do you keep on using my full name?"

"Because that is how you introduced yourself. I'm sorry, I think I'm hilarious."

"No."

"What?"

"No I don't want to be a chemist. I just picked chemical physics because it interests me. Same reason why you picked english literature."

"Ok, I didn't tell you why I picked english lit."

"Yes but it is obvious. For one thing there's not a definite career path for that subject and also it's clear you love reading. Your attention is drawn to my bookshelf and the books on it, you have the tell tale signs of someone who stayed up late reading, and the way you leaned back against the wall was not into a normal reclined position, but one that made reading easy to do. Simple really."

I was bewildered. "Yeah, simple...so what is it that you want to do when older?"

"I don't know yet," he admitted.

"You should be a spy. Or a detective. All that researching us and knowing about my love of reading. That was pretty cool by the way."

"Thank you. Most people say I'm a freak when I do that."

"Oh no, that's what boring people call people who are interesting. That talent is cool, people just call you a freak because it probably makes them feel stupid and uninteresting."

"People are stupid and uninteresting."

"Thanks."

"You are actually interesting."

"But still stupid."

He smiled warmly at that, "Compared to me yes. Compared to normal people, probably not."

"Thanks...? What do you mean by interesting."

"I read so much of interest from you, but there's also a lot I don't understand. It is going to be fun puzzling you over."

"Wow Sherlock, you just told me you're going to be thinking about me," I teased.

He looked confused. "But I am."

I tried to hide my smile and casually got off of the bed. "I'm going to go and make dinner, then get ready to go out. I'll see you later."

He silently closed his eyes and put his hands in front of his lips, as if in a prayer. I left the room and tried to ignore the fact that I was a little pleased to know he'd be thinking about me


	4. Chapter 4

I trudged into the kitchen, head pounding. I put on the kettle and hung my head over the sink, feeling like shit. I pulled back my curly hair from my face, and noticed one honey blonde curl was black. Smudged mascara. I prayed it had happened over night, and not whilst at the club. I wore my sleep shirt and a pair of pants, all I managed to put on in my drunk and tired state. At that moment I really didn't care though, I just needed a coffee. I got the coffee from my cupboard and went over to the fridge. I was about to take out my milk when I noticed something odd looking in one of the drawers. I opened the drawer and took out a plastic sandwich bag filled with strange looking meat. I peered at it hazily, trying to work out what meat it was. Maybe I was still drunk.

"They're tongues."

I screamed and nearly dropped the bag, startled by the voice. I turned around and saw that Sherlock was sat on one of the sofas, looking at me in amusement.

"You what?" I asked when I had recovered.

"In the bag. Tongues. It's an experiment."

"Tongues?! How the fuck did you get them?"

"I went to the butchers obviously."

"Oh," I laughed, "I thought you meant human tongues."

"They are human tongues."

I paled a little and put the tongues back in the fridge drawer. I did not want to know why a butcher had human tongues.

"Why are they in fridge?" I queried, going back to the coffee I was making.

"I told you, it's an experiment."

"Oh yes, I got that. But does it have to be our fridge? We keep food in there! Is it not a wee bit unhygienic?"

"No. They're in a plastic bag. Are you still asleep?" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Probably," I muttered. I rubbed my eyes and took my coffee to the couch opposite him. I put leg up on the couch and rested my chin on my knee, closing my eyes and trying not to spew.

"Where's all your other food?" I asked, trying to make conversation. Anything to keep my mind off my hangover was good.

"I have a packet of biscuits in my cupboard."

"Is that it?!"

"Yes. I don't eat."

"Aww, can you not cook?"

"No, eating is a waste of time."

"You're joking right? Are you anorexic or something?"

"No. Eating slows me down."

I shook my head exasperated. He was peculiar. And he sounded anorexic to me.

"That doesn't make sense but alright."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort when the kitchen door opened. In walked an incredibly hungover and surprisingly quiet Chloe. Sherlock immediately got up from the couch and left the room. I didn't think anything of it and carried on with my coffee, chatting to Chloe about last nights antics.

Several days later I sat in the library, pouring over Chekhov. Our teacher wanted to start us off on plays first, thinking it would be easier to start reading them as they were shorter. She's clearly never read Chekhov. All his character's names are Russian and therefore look the same, and they don't say or do anything interesting. And apparently that is why he was so popular. All about the subtext. Well fuck subtext, I thought, I want some fucking plot.

I was just at the bit where one of the characters was talking about shooting himself (ironic when this play was making me want to shoot myself) when a commotion distracted me. Well anything could have distracted me from that dull ass play.

I looked up and surprise surprise, Sherlock Holmes was pissing someone off.

"Look I don't care if you think I'm an idiot-"

"I don't think, I know."

I bit back a smile. He was so sassy. However the blonde preppy boy didn't seem to think it funny. In fact he was squaring up to Sherlock, flexing his muscles. There were no librarians on this floor and I feared that Sherlock may get into a fight. I stood up and walked over to them.

"Everything ok?" I asked. Stupid question, of course it wasn't. I could see in Sherlock's eyes that was what he was thinking too.

"Get out of here dear, don't want you to get hurt," said the blonde boy patronisingly. He was from England and looked like your typical Oxford/Cambridge/Edinburgh student.

"Oh really?" I asked, pissed off now. "I would watch your fucking mouth because I wouldn't want you to get hurt either. Actually you know what, I don't fucking care if you get hurt or not. So you better fucking get out of here. Now," I said in my meanest voice. I had stepped in front of Sherlock and was glaring at this twat.

The boy looked slightly taken aback but backed off. "You're lucky I don't hit girls. Wouldn't want to damage your pretty little face," he sneered. He gave us one last filthy look - which I returned - and he left. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had never been in a fight and didn't ever intend to. I shook my head. What the hell came over me?

"You didn't have to do that, I can look after myself." Sherlock sounded irritated, but slightly amused.

"I don't doubt it. Just thought if you got in a fight you'd be in trouble with the uni. I doubt that dick would start on a girl."

"He has no brain and therefore you can't predict what he would do."

"Why was he starting on you anyway?"

"I don't know. I merely laughed at his choice of book and we started a conversation. He got angry for no reason," he said, but he was smiling, as if he knew exactly why he got angry.

I snorted. "I'm sure," I muttered. We stood there smiling at each other until I blushed a little and walked back to the table I previously sat at. I picked up The Seagull and tried to pick off from where I left off.

However Sherlock followed me and sat opposite me.

I put down the play and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Shouldn't you be studying?" I asked.

"No the work is so easy I don't need to."

I rolled my eyes. "Well some of us mere mortals need to," I said, indicating the book, and picking it up again.

"Konstantin shoots himself in the end," he stated.

I threw down the book. "Well I'm glad. He's a fucking awful character anyway."

Sherlock looked a little taken aback. I suppose he expected me to be annoyed at him for spoiling it. Not that there was much to spoil.

"So what are you doing here if not studying?" I asked.

Sherlock looked a little sheepish. "It's not important."

"Alright..." I said, knowing he wasn't telling me something. But I dropped it.

"So are you enjoying your course?" I asked.

"No. It's too easy and the lecturers are fed up with me telling them so."

"Already? You've only been in class for a week!"

"Yes. It doesn't take long for people to realise they don't like me."

"Well I like you so-"

"Why?"

"What?"

Sherlock's eyes bore into mine. "Why do you like me? I don't get it, everyone hates me, I annoy them, but you don't seem to care."

I shrugged. "I guess I like everyone. I dunno Sherlock, you're an interesting guy. I don't care about insults, back home that's what we call banter."

Sherlock studied me for a while before seeming satisfied.

"Alright," he said.

I picked up the book and carried on from where I left off, Sherlock sitting opposite me in companionable silence. He watched the people go past, calculating them. I learned that one of his favourite past times was working out everything about a person just from looking.

From that point on Sherlock and I had an understanding. We could just sit together in silence and be comfortable. We could chill and have interesting conversations, though not very many. He wasn't a great talker.

And however much he said he hated socialising, he socialised with me, in his own way.

Often I would be at the library working and he'd come and find me, sit opposite me and people watch. Occasionally he would actually read a book from his course, but that rarely happened.

Other times he would sit on the sofa in the kitchen whilst I cooked. However if anyone else entered he would instantly leave. I felt bad that he was so uncomfortable around the others but I knew why: they didn't like him. I knew it wasn't their fault - he isn't an easy guy to get along with. But I wished they made him feel more comfortable. To be fair to them though, even if they tried to make him feel comfortable, he wouldn't be able to stand being in their presence. He could only tolerate a few people. Me, and one other boy on his course.

We would often have a cigarette break together. Both of us smoked (I wasn't addicted however - I never felt like I needed one) and when Sherlock needed one, he would knock on my door and we'd go outside with our coats on and smoke. We didn't talk much, just stood there enjoying the fumes.

And for the first few weeks of university, all seemed well.


End file.
